


Blue eyes and quick hands

by sherlockguineapig



Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: Ashes 2019, Falling In Love, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Meddling Friends, World Cup 2019, because this made more sense from a writing POV, in which pitch are the swanderson of australia, oops i slept with the opposition, two soft lads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-10-21 07:20:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20689649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockguineapig/pseuds/sherlockguineapig
Summary: In the summer of 2019, two fast bowlers, one from England and one from Australia, get to know each other better.And something happens.With all related problems.





	1. Somewhere above the Indian Ocean

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This story owes EVERYTHING to all the interesting photos of Chris Woakes and Pat Cummins over the 2019 Ashes.  
Complete crack!fic.  
Not sure where I'm going with this, but be patient. And I hope you'll enjoy it.
> 
> Also: there will be a hint of another English/Australian ship in chapter 5. If you pay a bit of attention to Lancashire CCC, you'll know.

Pat Cummins has a problem.

A big problem.

One he absolutely can’t talk to his mates about. Because he _knows_ what they would say.

Cringes inwardly as he tries to imagine their reactions. Tim would probably be nice about it (let’s face it, when isn’t he anything but nice), the fast bowling cartel (_since when did I start calling them cartel?) _would take him out for drinks, Steve would be surprised but come around eventually. And Mitch, bless him, would even try and help him sort this out. Arrange a meet-cute at the World T20 next year or something like that. Mitch should really stop watching so many romantic comedies.

But as for the rest of them, especially _Wadey_ …

Pat shivers. Which isn’t because of the air condition (which, as usual, has been turned up to “first round of the County Championship” – temperatures (_where did that just come from?_). But at least, that’s a credible excuse (unless Mitch is the first to spot it. Mitch knows him too well).

Sighing, Pat wraps his fleece jacket a little tighter around his shoulders. Leans against the window, tries to figure out which country they are flying across right now. Sometimes – and it has been eight years since his first cap for Australia – sometimes he really forgets how far away his home country really is.

_Home._ Six hours to go until their stop-over in Bangkok. Some time to stretch his legs, maybe even have a quick Thai meal with Mitch and Josh. Then, a further seven hours until Sydney. And _home._

It was autumn when they left. For one of the busiest summers Pat has ever lived through.

It will just about be spring when they come back.

Four months. Four uninterrupted months in England. Enough for Pat to begin to understand the place – a bit. And, as a gleeful Garry pointed out to him somewhere in the middle of their “job done” – party at Old Trafford, for his accent to “go a little haywire”.

Another reason for Pat to cringe, right now. Because he had not noticed, until then, that he was starting to pick up more than a few English sayings. Had even, accidentally, in the middle of a quietly frustrating fielding day at Lord’s, referred to the current standings runs first, wickets second.

Which had got him more than a few raised eyebrows.

Maybe it did rub off on him more than a bit, England. After all, he thinks, he was about to get his head around the current confusing political situation in the Mother Country. Was starting to recognise politicians’ names when he heard them in the news. And – which was surprisingly fun – found himself holding his own in a few football debates with the English lads.

_Oh brilliant, _Pat sighs at himself. That was really the last thing he wanted to think about right now.

After all, that was how it all began.

His problem.

Which may not even be a problem for much longer, come to think of it. After all, they both have domestic commitments, the World T20 is more than a year away, and there are a few international series in next year’s schedule already.

After all, they are going to spend a lot of the year – 2020, really? that sounds like straight out of one of those sci-fi movies he and Garry watch on tour – apart from each other, on different sides of the world.

_Maybe, by the time we meet again next October_ (if he even continues to play for the T20 side), _ he’ll have all but forgotten about it. And maybe I will too._

And if they don’t see each other at all next year (which is even more likely), it will take them until November 2021. _And by then, all this will be just a memory._

_Just a bit of fun on tour._

Even while he hears himself think that, Pat knows he is lying.

A finger jabs into the back of his neck. “Oi, Cummo, want some gingernuts?” Wadey asks, leaning forward in his seat so Pat can get a full sniff of his really quite strong aftershave.

“Yeah … nah. Thanks, mate.” Pat replies and yawns. “Just don’t complain to me when they’re all gone,” Wadey grins and passes the orange and blue packet over to Starcy. Who helps himself to a handful.

Tim comes back from his usual walk around the cabin. Yawns widely. And shoots Pat a look.

“You look like you’re freezing, Pat. Should I ask them to turn the AC down?” he asks while he settles in his seat and pulls the airplane-issue blanket around him.

“I … I knew I’d forgot something,” Pat replies. Stretches above his head to twist the grey plastic screw blasting sub-zero degrees air at him. Tries a few times but eventually the icy wind stops.

The odd feeling in Pat’s stomach, however, remains.

“We all could do with a bit of sleep.” Tim nods sympathetically and pulls the mask he bought at Heathrow over his eyes.

“You did not really get yourself a sleeping mask with a double-decker bus on it, Painey?” Josh, stopping at their row, asks with a laugh. “Guys, check this out. Our captain’s got a souvenir.”

“Bugger off,” Tim mutters without moving an inch. “And don’t wake me up for the next four hours or I _guarantee you, _you will carry our training esky for a month. At least.”

“He’s got a lot to learn about threats,” Josh says and winks at Dave. Who smirks. “Can’t ask the leopard to change his shorts. Not when he’s Painey, at least.”

“Lads.” Time for Pat to use his vice-captain privileges. Also, when the boys are in a mood like this, there is a slight chance (a _threat_) that they are going to be nosey about him. And he can’t risk slipping up. Not now.

Not while he still hasn’t made up his mind about it all.

“Lads?” Garry echoes and laughs. “Patty, Patty, time you get home and de-Pom-ify yourself.”

“I mean, _guys,_” Pat continues, “mind letting us sleep? We’re just about done for. And we’re gonna see each other at Mitch’s on Sunday anyway.”

“Okay, sorry PPP,” Garry tries to sound innocent.

“What’s PPP?” Jimmy, coming back from the toilet, asks Garry.

“Posh Pommie Pat.” Garry deadpans.

Hysterical giggles around the cabin. Loud enough to wake JL up.

Which, thankfully, for Pat, sorts the whole mess out within minutes. After all, threats of “being used as replacement stumps next time we’re at the nets”, do carry a lot of weight.

Pat nods gratefully at their coach and settles down again.

Looks out of the window. At the Indian Ocean, a few thousand metres below.

Wonders what _he _is doing right now. Where he is.

If _he_ is thinking about Pat as much as Pat is thinking about him.

Pat closes his eyes.

And thinks back to a rainy Wednesday in mid-May.


	2. Royal Garden Hotel, Kensington

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> September 18, 2019.  
Chris is spending the evening with his mates at Stuart's testimonial party.  
But his mind keeps drifting back to Sunday night.  
And something that may, after all, just have been a bit of fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank the cricketing gods for the goldmine that is Stuart Broad's Instagram.

Chris Woakes is having a good time tonight.

Let the record show that.

Just because he is a little more quiet than usual, does not join in with their favourite party games – “guess the Australian” (to be fair, Broady’s impression of David Warner was hilarious) and “worst dancer ever” (considering Rash is not with them tonight, it’s anyone’s prize to grab) – and has only taken out one video of the quite good live concert going on all around them, does not mean he would rather be anywhere else.

At least, that is what he _wants_ his mates to think.

The truth, however, is quite different.

And difficult. Difficult to make sense of, even for him, although he has enjoyed two solid nights of uninterrupted sleep (make that “plant yourself face first into the mattress and wake up with several knots in your neck about ten hours later”) since it happened.

If you could even say that something happened. If it even meant something.

Maybe, he thinks while he helps himself to two sushi rolls off the buffet table behind him, sneezes as the sharp taste of wasabi paste hits his nostrils (“bless you Woakesy,” 15 different voices say at the same time), maybe it was all just a by-product of a party.

A party, an end-of-series celebration, made even more joyful by the fact that all of them – Australians and English alike – were now facing an unprecedented six weeks off, completely, totally off, for the first time since March. And by the fact that the Aussies may have retained the urn, but the series was drawn. So, everyone had something to be happy about.

And so what if …? For all Chris knows, he is on his way back to Australia right now (they did say they were leaving on Tuesday afternoon?). For all Chris knows, he has put the events of Sunday night behind him. Is having fun with his mates, celebrating their successful away Ashes series and his own quite impressive wickets tally.

And has stopped thinking about Chris.

“Woakesy, over here!” Broady shouts and waves.

Seems genuinely excited, which, as Chris knows from years of experience, especially if Broady and Jimmy are in the same room, does occasionally spell trouble.

Nevertheless, it is Stuart’s night tonight. His testimonial party, celebrating his quite incredible career- and his brilliance in this series - , raising money for a good cause and kicking off their holidays at the same time.

Chris does not know of anyone who deserves a testimonial party more than Stuart. Who does have to deal with the fact that his long-term opening-partner, his best friend, does happen to be the most successful fast bowler in English cricketing history. And who does occasionally get a bit overshadowed by Jimmy, at least in the media.

_Stu’s had a great summer. And it’s time we showed him how much we appreciate him._

So, Chris quite readily accepted the invitation to the Royal Garden Hotel in Kensington (even though he has had his fair share of black-tie events all over the summer). Knowing the food would be excellent, the music would be even better (at last, Jimmy’s taste in music is beginning to rub off on Stuart) and it would be the perfect occasion to let their hair down and enjoy themselves.

Even though there is this niggling feeling at the back of his mind. And even though he’s found himself, on more than one occasion tonight, aimlessly leafing through the contacts in his phone and stopping at a certain number. Staring at WhatsApp, cursor hovering over the white square that reads “message”. Thinking what to type. Feeling the heat settle on his cheeks (and for once, thanking the fact that everyone, if they want to wind him up, already calls him “Blushyface”).

And closing the app again.

_Not tonight._

“Coming, mate!” Chris replies and crosses the reception room. A quite spacious dancefloor has been created in front of the stage. Red, pink and purple lights dance across the room, settle on people’s faces and outfits, giving everyone an almost otherworldly appearance.

Especially Joe. Whose hair does look good with a tinge of pink, Chris thinks.

On stage, Keane (how on earth did Stuart get one of the biggest names in Britpop to play at this party?) launch into a new song. Instantly recognised by the older lads in the team, greeted with a few cheers. “Can I…?” Jimmy asks the room. Rubs his hands gleefully.

“Of course, Jim, it’s loud enough that nobody’s gonna hear you.” Joe replies with a serious expression on his face. “You cheeky little shit.” Jimmy rolls his eyes, but fondly. “Anyway, lads, our skipper gave me permission, so I’m gonna sing. It’s one of my favourite tunes.”

Stuart pretends to duck out of the way and cover his ears. 

There is a – for those that don’t know Jimmy that well – very threatening grumble.

“You had an idea, Broady?” Chris asks, trying to get Stuart out of harm’s way. “Right. Lads, it’s the last night we’re ever gonna have with Trev. Anyone who gets him to dance with us, I’ll get you a drink. Whatever you want.” Stuart grins. “Leave that to me,” Ben says with a determined expression on his face.

Everyone laughs.

Even harder when they see Jos and Jase coming their way with a plate full of cupcakes. And two identical slim black ties tied around their heads.

“Again, fuck’s sake?” Joe giggles. “You do know how silly you look, muffin?”

“And you do remember you promised to sing at least one with us?” Jos replies and kisses Joe’s cheek. Prompting an even louder giggle. “Why do you always ask that when I’m half asleep?” Joe complains affectionately.

“Because I know you won’t say no, then.” Jos hands Joe a cupcake. “Come on, do us a favour. It’s Broady’s party and the first night of our holiday.” he pleads with a grin.

Joe relents. And proceeds to loosen his tie. Ties it around his forehead, stops to take his phone out of his suit pocket. “Jase, come here. For the photo album.” he says and waves at Jason.

Grinning, they pose for a selfie. “Next one’s ours, lads.”

“What were you thinking about, Woakesy?” Eoin, coming back from the bar with a fresh glass of white wine, asks Chris out of nowhere. Drags him out of a very confusing train of thoughts.

“Just enjoying myself.” Chris smiles. “Although this evening would be even better if a certain someone was with us.” “Who … oh, right. But his match isn’t gonna finish until tomorrow, is it?” Eoin wonders.

“It is. But they’re going well.” Joe says with an interesting smile on his face. “Who are you talking about?” Rory sounds quite genuinely confused.

“Cooky, that’s who.” Chris replies.

At which point, Jonny shouts “bingo!” and turns to Jof. They fist-bump each other.

And Ben, to Chris’ confusion, looks a bit annoyed. “I should have known,” he says and pats Jonny and Jof on the back. “Educated guess.” Jonny says nonchalantly. With a satisfied grin.

“Should have known what?” Chris asks.

“Oh you were outdoors when that happened, Woakesy.” Ben explains. “We decided to run a bet.” “How long it would take, for one, and who would be the first one to bring up Cooky this evening.” Jonny adds.

“And you honestly thought it would be me? I … you do remember his actual fiancé is with us tonight?” Chris laughs. “Jimmy didn’t count.” Ben says and reaches for his wallet. “There you go lads, that’s your fivers.” he says and hands Jonny and Jof a note.

“Thanks mate.” Jof shakes Ben’s hand. “Better luck next time.”

“Cheeky bugger.” Ben grins. “So I’m off to convince Trev. Who’s joining me?”

At the same moment, however, Keane start to play the first notes of “Everybody’s Changing.”

Which brings the biggest cheers of the evening.

And even a few goosebumps on Chris’ arms. So many memories that he instantly associates with that song. His first introduction to Britpop. Even now, decades later, he knows the entire album by heart. Can still remember saving his pocket money for a month for it.

At once, the dancefloor fills up. And everyone, everyone, arms around each other, is singing along at the top of their voices, Joe’s (as usual) standing out above the rest.

_Although he’s missing Cooky’s background vocals, _Chris thinks.

_And I am missing … someone else._

Now is as good an occasion as any, while they are all singing and dancing along with the band.

Now, nobody is paying attention to him. Not even Jase, who is usually quite quick at spotting something unusual.

Chris takes his phone. Opens WhatsApp. For the eighth time tonight. Feels his heart pound (_why?_).

**Having a great time at Stuart’s testimonial party, you’d like the music! Hope you’re …**

And then, he realises a camera is pointed at his face.

Glad for the quite pink light shining down on him, hiding the crimson colour on his cheeks, Chris grins. Puts the phone down on the table (has the good sense to delete the text). And, as Jonny is filming him, does his best to lip-sync along with the chorus.

“Nice one, Woakesy, that’s gonna go to my Instagram stories.” Jonny pounds him on the back. “Mind sending it to me first? I’d quite like to keep it. For myself, I mean.” Chris asks hurriedly. “Sure.”

_I could … maybe he’ll like that._ Chris can feel himself smile.

Oh, how is he ever going to get past this? And he needs to.

_He_ is on the other side of the globe, after all.

Summoning all his remaining willpower, Chris saves the video on his phone. And tells himself to leave it alone for the rest of the night. That he’s here to have some good food, celebrate one of his best friends and enjoy the evening. That it’s not every day you get invited to such a fancy hotel.

Which, in retrospect, was his worst decision of the evening.

Because, while Chris joins Joe and Jos for a quick breath of fresh air after the concert finishes, he has all but forgotten about his phone, still lying face-down on the table.

Which means that, as usual with these lads, it falls into some inquisitive hands. Privacy is a concept everyone struggles more than a bit with at the end of a series. You do live in each other’s pockets, especially when you are playing five tests. And so, things always become a bit communal.

“Let’s see who Woakesy has been texting with all evening.” Jase announces gleefully and flicks through Chris’ phone. “Must be someone special, he was smiling more than usual.” “And that’s saying something, considering Woakesy hardly does anything else.” Jonny leans over his shoulder. “Nothing out of the ordinary, but … what’s that Australian mobile number doing in his contacts?”

“Does it have a name?” Jimmy asks, curious despite himself.

“No. Just says “F”.” Jase replies thoughtfully. “Could be anyone.”

“Let’s hope it’s not Warney.”

Everyone shudders. “No, Woakesy’s got better taste than that.” Jimmy says with a certainty.

“So do we text this “F” guy back?” Jonny asks the room. “Quickly, they could be back any minute.”

“We do.” Jase says and begins to type, reading his message out loud as he does so: **To the unknown Aussie in Woakesy’s phone, what exactly are you doing there. And please tell us you’re not Warner. PLEASE. Btw, we WILL find out who you are. Even if you don’t reply to this.**

“Done.” Jase presses “send” and puts the phone back. And everyone dissolves into gleeful giggles. “I still … I never thought. Our Blushyface and an Aussie.” Stuart shakes his head. “Maybe we’re all reading too much into it.” Jonny cautions them.

Ben returns at that exact moment. Trevor follows on his heels. “Lads, Ben tells me you want to dance?”

Renewed cheers.

Outdoors, Joe, Jos and Chris lean against the wall of the hotel, watch the cars go by.

Jos has both arms wrapped around Joe.

“Nice night, right lads?” Chris says after an extended comfortable silence.

“Right. The perfect finish to this summer.” Jos yawns. “Broady’s done good.”

“He has. The food was brilliant.” Chris smiles. “And …”

“Woakesy, everything okay with you?” Joe interrupts him. “You’ve been a little quiet.”

For a moment, Chris considers telling Joe all about it.

_Then again, it’s only Wednesday. And it may end up being nothing serious, after all._

Chris cranes his neck to look up into the night sky.

And thinks about a pair of piercing blue eyes.

And slender, quick hands.

_Oh for fuck’s sake._


	3. English weather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During the ups and downs of the World Cup, Pat suddenly finds himself keeping a closer look at England's results.  
Their results. Not someone in particular, that is.
> 
> And then ... a rain delay at Lord's acts as a sort of catalyst.  
For something taking everyone by surprise.  
And confusing the heck out of Pat.

“And they told us it was spring over here,” Coults grumbles and points out of the window of the meeting room. It is yet another miserably grey afternoon, clouds hanging threateningly low over the training ground in Southampton. The fielding session in the morning had already been brought to an abrupt end by a sudden downpour, forcing everyone to sprint indoors – and then sprint back when Dave pointed out that someone had left a bunch of towels as well as his gloves on the grass.

So, in order to cut off the small arguments that had immediately sprung up, as well as the inevitable boredom that would settle on his team in the afternoon (and especially to prevent another one of these shaving cream fights that had been all the rage in the Emirates), Finchy told everyone they would meet at 2 pm to go over their overall strategy and have a closer look at the other teams’ squads.

Which is what they are doing right now, everyone settled into quite uncomfortable chairs in a deserted room on the first floor of their hotel, trying their best to pay attention to their captain. Which, considering someone seems to have decided to turn the central heating on again, making the room uncomfortably warm, and also considering they all had generous second helpings at lunch, is not exactly easy.

More than once, while Alex leads the debate about their fielding set-ups, Pat catches himself trying to stifle a yawn. Finds his eyes drifting across the room, out of the window, not really sure what he is looking for. Anything to keep him from nodding off like he did in Dubai, though. He would never live this down if it happened a second time. Even though he is still not over his jetlag and …

“Oi, Postman, I know you’re the superior bowler in here, but that doesn’t mean you don’t need to pay attention,” Kez laughs and pretends to throw his pen at Pat. “I …,” this time Pat is unable to hide his yawn behind his hands. “Sorry. Was miles away. What are we…?”

It is only now Pat realises Finchy has closed the meticulous (and ridiculously detailed) Power Point presentation he has been working with for the last 40 minutes. Has thrown up a video on the screen behind him. Showing a brown-haired bowler in an England outfit, mid-run up. Who looks vaguely familiar, Pat thinks. “Thought we could watch a bit of footage from their last game against Pakistan,” Finchy explains, not without throwing Pat an exasperated look. “Should give us an idea what we’re up against. Don’t think any of us has played against their opening partnership before?”

“Who …?” “Wood and Woakes, we think.” Dave cuts Pat off.

_Woakes. Chris Woakes. Of course. I’m an idiot._ Pat rolls his eyes at himself. “Go on?”

“Fine, now _everyone’s_ paying attention to their captain again, that was Woakes’ third wicket last week.” Finchy sighs and clicks on “play”.

Curious, Pat watches the video. Feels himself smile the moment the ball drops to the ground behind Mohammad Hafeez. _Perfect line and length. He must have known that was a leg before. As soon as he let go of the ball. _

In hindsight, that was when Pat’s problem began.

Two days later, the forecast improves drastically. Not that it is as warm as one would expect it to be when summer is barely a month away. _Maybe the England boys were on to something, _Pat thinks while he settles on the balcony at the Aegeas Bowl, grateful for his new fleece jacket. It does still get quite uncomfortable when there are clouds blocking out the sun. _With all these comments about “English summer” when it rained in Sydney last January. _Pat rather likes their dry sense of humour.

His jetlag having gotten to the point where he can sit up straight for more than one hour without his eyelids beginning to get heavy again, Pat is still rather glad that Finchy told him to sit this game out. Because it would not mean that much in terms of his own pre-tournament preparation anyway. And because it is a nice change, watching an entire game without having to do any work.

Nevertheless, Pat is vice-captain of this team. And that does give him a sense of responsibility. So, while Finchy organises their field down in the middle, Pat, after a quick chat with JL, balances a notepad on his knees, pencil behind his ear. Tries to watch the England batsmen, take notes on each individual approach. And get a few ideas on his own tactics.

At the moment, however, and Pat has no idea where that is coming from, he has not taken any notes for a good ten minutes. Finds himself staring down at the field, wonders if England’s decision to go back to a light-blue kit may not end up backfiring horribly (it does look a bit like a pyjama, Ussie was not wrong about that). And – to his surprise – even caught himself nodding appreciatively as Woakes hit another boundary.

_We need to keep an eye on this one. A proper all-rounder._

Two balls later, they run him out, Stoin hitting the stumps with an excellent throw.

And Pat knows – from experience – that this is it, that they have England on the ropes.

Interviews, de-briefings and a quick massage done, Pat makes his way out of the ground. With his mind firmly on the excellent dinner waiting for him at the hotel, he hardly pays attention to his surroundings and … “Oi.” A definitely English voice complains and Pat hears a laugh. “Sorry.” he says and looks up.

To find himself looking at a face with quite pretty blue eyes, a faint blush on its cheeks and a pleasant-looking smile. _He really smiles quite often, _Pat thinks. “Hi there. Haven’t seen you in a while.” he says and holds out a hand. “Hope you didn’t bang your head too hard?”

“Nah, I’m good, thanks.” Chris replies and laughs. Shakes Pat’s hand. “How’s the jetlag?”

“Getting better.” Pat says. Wonders how it happened but falls into step next to Chris as they head to the car park. “Wouldn’t mind a bit of sun though. That always helps me.”

“Sorry about that.” Chris smiles. “Hasn’t been this wet over here for a while.”

Their chat continues for a while, as pleasant as Pat thought it would be, ambling on from the weather and favourite jetlag remedies to their opponents and their own personal fortunes since the last series. In fact, Pat finds himself rather regretting it when Ussie catches up with him, juggling his car keys.

“Sorry, dinner’s waiting. Good luck against Pakistan!” he says and shakes Chris’ hand again. Chris wants to reply something but stops. “Actually, we’ve started to say go well. Because … I think you know what they say about Lady Luck.”

“Oh okay then. Go well.” Pat grins.

“Cheers. And go well yourself.” Chris waves at Pat as they drive off.

The next couple of days sees everyone step up a gear in training, the usual pre-tournament excitement starting to build up, leading to a few small arguments. Nothing Pat takes too seriously, though. Not even when Maxi accidentally takes his favourite running shoes and then flat-out refuses to give them back.

The weather, however, continues to spoil their plans.

Which is why, on the afternoon of May 31, their opening game barely 24 hours away, Pat finds himself at a gym in Bristol, trying to get in a few kilometres on the treadmill while the rain beats down incessantly on the roof directly above his head. For the time being, he is quite glad to have the place to himself. Not that he doesn’t love the boys, but they can be a bit full-on if you see them for 24 hours a day. And being vice-captain does give you privileges.

Like the occasional excuse to get away from everyone.

Pat has just decided to turn up the volume on the loudspeakers to his right when the door opens.

“But you said this place was gonna be empty, Jossy.” someone complains. Puzzling Pat for a moment. He definitely has heard this voice somewhere. A … well all he can say with a certainty is that it was a Northern English accent. Pat does need to get the hang of it at some point.

“I should have known, we’re in the middle of a World Cup after all,” a quite musically sounding second voice replies. Making Pat smile instantly. Not only because he puts two and two together as to the relationship of the two people behind him.

But also because he – now – knows who they are.

Pat presses pause on the treadmill and turns around. “Hi there. Didn’t expect to run into any of you today.” “Likewise,” Joe grins and crosses the room to shake hands with him. “Thought you had a game tomorrow? What are you doing in the gym?” “Thought _you_ were off to Nottingham?” Pat replies and they laugh. “I..” “Not until…”

“You first, Pat,” a third voice says. Sounds like it is smiling.

Pat finds himself lost for words for about half a second. “And what are you doing here with them?” he asks, surprised. “Oh, Trev gave us the afternoon off and we owed Woakesy a cuppa and a piece of cake. He did win our Championship betting pool last week. But we also decided to do a little bit in the gym afterwards. And I’ve known this place for ages.” Jos explains.

Pat steps down from the treadmill. Smiles at Chris who, having dumped his kitbag in one corner of the gym, joins them, smoothing his hair back. “What else could I want from this week. We win our opening game, Stokesy takes probably the catch of the century, the World Cup’s finally under way … and the football love of my life are back in the Premiership.” Chris says delightedly and fist-bumps Joe. “That’s a good omen for the summer, right,

Rooty?”

“Absolutely. And …” But then Joe notices Pat’s mildly confused look. “He’s talking about Aston Villa.” Joe explains. When Pat does not reply instantly, Joe can not hide a grin. “Oh god, you Aussies really have a lot to learn about football. I mean … do you even get to watch the Premiership at your place?”

“We do. But … you know, with the time difference and all.” Pat says.

“Might as well do it now, you’re gonna be in England for a while. The new season starts in August. And _my _Sheffield United have been promoted as well.” Joe rubs his hands.

“You’re not wrong about that.” Pat agrees after he has given it some thought. “How do I pick a team though?” Chris and Joe both huff indignantly. “You don’t _pick_ teams, they pick _you._” Joe points out. “But … tell you what. Let’s do some weights while I try and convince you to support Aston Villa.” Chris shoots Pat a mischievous grin. And Pat, weirdly, finds himself grinning back.

In the end, they continue their chat at a nearby sushi restaurant, only interrupted by a worried Finchy looking for Pat and calling him just as Pat wants to order dessert.

With a well-meant “have a good game”, Pat says goodbye to the English boys.

And hurries back to the hotel with a smile on his face. That stays with him for the rest of the night.

Weeks pass and the seemingly interminable group stage suddenly comes to life again when England suffer a narrow loss at the hands of Lasith Malinga and Sri Lanka. Blowing the table wide open, with as many as six teams in with a shout at the four spots in the semi-finals.

And so, ahead of the long-awaited game against England, Pat and his teammates need exactly one win to guarantee their qualification.

Which has Finchy give them one of the most fired-up speeches Pat has ever heard. Makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up while Finchy high-fives everyone in turn and pads up. “Let’s show ‘em, guys.” Finchy clenches his left hand into a fist, flexes his fingers again and slips his gloves on.

_Go well, _Pat hears himself think while he looks for a spot on the balcony. Unbidden, his eyes trail down to the field, where Chris (_since when did I begin to think of him as “Chris”? We haven’t spoken in three weeks_) completes his own warm-up. Throws the ball up with one hand, catches it again. _Ready._

_I wonder how they’re coping with the pressure,_ Pat thinks.

For a while, as the England pacers tear through his batting order, it looks like they are handling it just well. As luck would have it, Pat himself becomes Chris’ last victim, 2.5 overs before the end of their innings, an edge carrying directly to Jos Buttler behind the stumps, leaving him with a measly one run.

While he drags himself back to the pavilion, quietly fuming, he feels someone look at him.

Turns around. To see Chris giving him the tiniest of winks.

Which has him confused for the next fifteen minutes.

Followed by a different kind of confusion as Finchy decides to throw the new ball to Jason instead of Pat, shutting Pat’s question off with a short “you’ll see”.

And Pat _does_ see. Quite well, in fact. Watches on, his determination quickly turning into something bordering on elation as Jason and Starcy, fired up by having a fellow left-armer to share bowling duties with, rip through the England top order.

Excitement grabs hold of everyone on the field. Leads to a few very nonsensical comments from Kez behind the stumps that have their slip fielders fighting against giggles.

Pat’s own line and length remain inexplicably off all through the second innings. And he finishes their well-deserved victory without wickets. Which has not happened for a while.

While they leave the ground, wait for the elevator (nobody’s going to make them use the stairs after a hard day’s graft with the white ball, as Starcy points out to JL), Pat suddenly spots Chris at the top of a subdued, quiet England group coming their way. Looking as if they have the expectations of an entire country on their shoulders.

“Think I forgot my glasses cloth in the dressing room,” Pat hears himself explain to Finchy and, before he knows it, catches up with his opponents. Who, Morgan and Buttler at least, do not wait to give him the time of day. _Fair play to them though, it is the middle of the World Cup after all._

Chris, however, stops and greets Pat with a smile. A different shade of pink has settled on his cheeks. “Sorry about that wicket earlier,” Chris apologises, and Pat cannot help but laugh. “No need, you saw it and you exploited it. All part and parcel of our job.”

Chris suddenly looks a bit dejected again. Pat quickly turns around to see if nobody is watching them and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry. You were doing just fine and you made life pretty hard for us today. We’ll see each other in the semi-final.” he says and means it.

And does not stop to dwell on Chris’ reaction. And the by now crimson colour of his face.

_Maybe_, Pat thinks while their plane begins its slow descent towards Bangkok Airport, _maybe I should have become suspicious back then. But I really thought … I was only trying to be nice._

_And so was he, only two weeks later._

_We’re fucked._ The realisation settles heavily on Pat’s shoulders as he watches Garry run in, four balls into just the 30th over of the England innings, among the deafening noise of a jam-packed Edgbaston, 25.000 mostly English supporters cheering their team on.

Only 14 runs separate the hosts from their first World Cup final in 27 years.

And they have only lost two wickets. With twenty – _twenty _– overs remaining.

_We’re fucked. We’re utterly, colossally fucked and … that was a nice swat, actually._ Pat follows the ball with his eyes, sees it hit the boundary. Hears Morgs and Joe bump gloves, gives Garry a quick thumbs-up that he does not think his mate took seriously at all.

_It’s only a matter of when, now. _Both England’s captain – _make that captain**s** – _Pat corrects himself, both England’s captains know how to hit sixes. Might even decide to go for them, they have all the time in the world.

A lump forms in Pat’s throat. _I really thought we could._

The end comes swiftly, Morgs heaving the first ball of the 33rd over over mid-on and then running into the arms of his batting partner. The ground erupts, there are even a few fireworks blasting into the sky. Chants, chants Pat does not want to pay attention to, around the stands, doubtlessly taking a bit of piss at them. At their own substandard performance.

_They deserve it_. Pat blinks back a tear and follows Finchy’s lead, lining up with the rest of his equally disappointed teammates. _However much I want to go and hide, we need to do this._

To their credit, the English boys all have nice things to say as they file past Pat and the others, shake hands with beaming grins on their faces. Even stop to congratulate Pat on his run in the tournament, cheekily telling him they hope that “that was it for the rest of the summer”.

And suddenly, Pat finds himself face-to-face with Chris. Again.

Who takes a moment to gather his thoughts before he squeezes Pat’s shoulder. “Sorry mate, wasn’t meant to be for you.” he says and sounds surprisingly sincere. Pat, feeling the lump in his throat grow to an almost painful size, does not reply. Simply nods. And lets Chris pass.

And wonders why his heart just seemed to beat a little faster.

Their initial disappointment having been drowned in an extended pity party and a few vows to “show them what’s what once the Ashes come around”, Pat and Ussie decide to watch the final after all, their curiosity getting the better of them. Would the Kiwis be able to go one better after 2015? Or would it be the anticipated first ever World Cup for England?

Mitch and Tim, who arrived on Friday afternoon and who, as Tim explains, “feel more than a bit antsy”, join them and they camp out in Ussie’s room, sharing fruit and chips.

As the tension grows and nothing seems to be able to separate the two sides , the excitement even starts to catch on with Pat and his friends. In increasing silence, they watch the final few balls of the England innings, forgetting about their snacks, unable to tear their eyes away from the screen.

“We’re going to a Super Over!” Ian Smith yells into the microphone, making everyone jump.

“A Super Over.” Pat repeats thoughtfully. “That means … oh bloody hell they’ve _all done this before._” he adds in Tim’s direction as the list of players flashes up on the screen. “Boult’s played IPL, Neesh has, but so have Buttler, Stokes and Archer. Jesus fucking Christ. This could go either way.”

“Smart choices,” Ussie agrees. “Remind me again, what happens if that’s tied too?”

“I think it goes to boundaries. As in, boundaries scored.” Mitch says and squeezes Pat’s hand. “What a thriller that is. Sure glad I decided to watch.”

Pat can only agree. But, as Jos and Ben set New Zealand 16 to win, his eyes settle, unbidden, on a by now familiar figure in an England shirt at long-on. _Come on, Chris. You can do this._

One ball remains. Two runs separate New Zealand from the World Cup.

“What’s Archer gonna do now?” Tim asks the room. “They have to run. Who…”

Archer releases the ball with breath-taking speed. Guptill swats it away and the New Zealand batsmen set off, sprinting down the wicket.

Pat keeps his eyes on the ball. Sees it being picked up by Roy who looks around for a split-second and…

and then, Jos Buttler dives ball first into the stumps, the red lights flash and Lord’s explodes.

“Oh holy crap.” Ussie mutters, completely stunned, while they watch the England players falling into each other’s arms, overjoyed, squeezing the living daylights out of each other. And … a figure in light blue extracts himself from the group hug, crosses the field, stops at the stumps where Marty Guptill has sunk to his knees, fighting back tears.

Stops and puts a hand on Marty’s shoulder. _Chris._

A shiver runs down Pat’s spine.

_Wow. The biggest moment of his career. And he’s decent enough to do this._

“Patty.” Mitch laughs and punches his arm. “Do I have to be jealous?” he adds a little more quietly, looks every inch as “touched” as he sounds. “What, of a Pommie?” Pat replies and laughs. “You know I only have eyes for you, Mitchy, right?” “Well you just got yourself out of paying for dinner.” Mitch grins and presses a kiss to Pat’s cheek. “What a game, guys.”

_What a game._ Even as they head out for dinner a while later, Ussie and Finchy filling Tim in on everything worth knowing from the World Cup, Pat can’t help but re-play that dramatic last 30 minutes before his mind’s eye. Wonders how Chris and his friends held up, how they kept their nerves during the final overs. And what they are doing tonight. On what may be the best night of their lives. _I need to ask him during the Ashes. I really want to know._

There is one significant advantage to a Test series, though. They will all be in the same places.

For _six weeks. _So, plenty of time for Pat. Which fills him with an unusual sort of excitement.

As July rumbles on and the first day of the first Test lurks around the corner, Pat finds his mood improving day by day. It is not just – but mostly, let’s be honest – the prospect of the Ashes, the unofficial Test World Championship (at least if you were born in either England or Australia), of defending the urn Pat helped regain 18 months ago. Of leading their attack, of having his favourite opening partner Josh there to share new-ball duties with him. Of having the red ball back in his hands again.

Where Pat, which is an open secret by now, just feels that extra bit more confident.

A confidence that stays with him all the way through the first test, even as they find themselves on the ropes at 122-8 (Patrick James Cummins, it’s wickets first, runs second) on the first day, even as he himself falls victim to a fired-up English pace attack. _With Smudge on the field, nothing’s impossible._

Pat’s instincts prove right just before tea on the fifth day when Garry finishes a brilliant six-fer, sealing their first victory in Edgbaston for almost two decades.

But even as they celebrate, congratulate a quite emotional Steve on his _two_ centuries, Pat scans the ground. Looks for Chris. Finds him just as he wants to head back indoors, to console his teammates. Pat, not knowing what to do, just nods at Chris.

And Chris nods as well.

And an odd feeling settles over Pat while everyone tries to get off the field as quickly as possible.

_I was so incredibly oblivious; _Pat thinks with a sigh and grabs his backpack. Hurries after Mitch who has just left the plane. Feels his stomach rumble. _Could really do with some Thai food now._

Just when Pat was half prepared to say something nice about the weather while they prepare for the second test at Lord’s, said weather takes a turn for the worse. The decidedly worse.

As soon as Pat wakes up on the morning of day one, he hears the rain lash against the windows of his hotel room. Pads to the far end of the room, gets on tiptoes and looks out. Hardly sees anything. Only a misshapen grey wet mass.

_Just fucking perfect. Does not look like we’re gonna play a lot today._

Trying his best to hide his annoyance at the weather, Pat gets ready as quickly as he can and joins the rest of his team for breakfast. Hopes Tim will be able to keep everyone under control today. Rain delays always make anyone more restless than is good for them. Have already led to a few blow-up arguments in Pat’s test career, mostly caused by someone (_Garry_, that is) saying something without thinking twice and upsetting someone else.

_We need to have a plan. This looks like it could go on for a while. Stupid English summer._

Tim seems to have read Pat’s thoughts. Points to a deck of cards lying on the table next to him. “Just in case,” he says and winks at Pat. “Good idea.” Pat gives him a thumbs-up and pours himself a new cup of coffee. “We’re gonna have a lot of time on our hands.”

“At least lunch’s gonna be brilliant,” Ussie points out while they carry their gear to the bus. Which is enough to lift Pat’s spirits again. Lord’s prides itself on its excellent kitchen, throwing up creative menus for every day of a test match. And with the prospect of play looking slim, there will be plenty of time to eat, today.

Despite it all, Pat still goes through his pre-match warm-ups, his usual rituals with the ball. Tries to get himself ready, “switched on” as Johno always put it. Only grins for about half a second when a mildly drenched Tim comes sprinting back indoors at 11 am sharp to tell them that there’s going to be a pitch inspection in an hour, a comment greeted with derisive snorts from almost the entire dressing room.

Pat grabs part of the newspaper JL bought in the morning and studies the sports pages. Finds an article about the newly promoted teams in the Premier League, his face settling into a grin as he comes to a paragraph titled “Aston Villa”. Reads it with greater interest than he would have just two months ago. _So that’s why he’s so excited, _Pat smiles. _I could ask him at …_

“Postman, get your a into g, it’s lunch!” Ussie shakes Pat’s arm.

“It … what? Is it 1 already?” Pat scrambles to his feet. “Nope, didn’t you hear Tim before? We’re gonna take an early lunch.” Ussie laughs. “Must have been quite the interesting paper, can I have it after you’re done?” “Course.”

There is already a sizeable queue outside the kitchen, half-English, half-Australian. As usual during rain delays, they exchange a few words with the English guys, looking every bit as restless as they are.

“Really sorry about the weather,” Joe apologises to Tim when Tim hands him the menu. “It’s never been this bad in August.” “That’s climate change for you,” Tim replies with a shrug. “Anything you can recommend for lunch?” “Try the salmon steak,” Stuart joins in. “You’ll love it.”

After careful consideration, Pat orders exactly that. Spends a few seconds admiring the quite fancy plate he is being handed by the kitchen staff and then looks for a place. Tries to tell himself that he is not after anyone in particular but …

“Pat?” A smiling voice asks and someone taps him on the shoulder. Chris, carrying a bowl of something that smells like tomato soup, stops a foot behind him. Looks quite happy to see him. “I was just wondering … I usually have lunch over here, nice view of the ground,” he explains and points to a deserted table underneath a window. “And maybe a bit of superstition. That was after all where I sat during my first ever century.”

Pat smiles. “Mind if I join you?”

“Of course not.” Chris says generously and leads the way. “So … how have you been? That was quite the spell you bowled in the first innings at Edgbaston, by the way. Well done. Would have preferred not to see it though,” he grins and sits down.

“Thanks for the compliment, can only give that back.” Pat says, settling into a chair across from him. “You’re really quite good at those late swinging balls. Is there anything you’re doing differently with the red ball?” “Are _you _doing anything different with the red ball?” Chris retorts, taking a spoonful of soup. They both laugh. “Sorry, didn’t want that to sound odd. Just being curious. I’ve, well Broady calls it the fast bowling cartel. It may be the Ashes, but he keeps saying we need to keep an eye out for each other, us pace bowlers. And I don’t think we’ve ever had a proper chat.” Chris leans forward in his chair, studying Pat’s face. Which, for some reason, makes Pat feel a little … warm.

“I did try and change my run-up during the India series,” Pat replies after his first bite of salmon. “Think I can get an extra ten ks per hour if I add about twenty metres to it.” “Funny you should say that, I’ve been trying to do exactly the same. And I try and land differently once I’ve released the ball.” Chris takes a sip of water and puts the glass down again. Smiles at Pat.

“You’re heaps better with the red ball. Unfortunately,” he adds with something that may just have been a mischievous grin. “Why… I mean, thanks. But what makes you say that?” Pat grins and leans forward as well. Studies Chris’ eyes, which, as he only now realises, are almost the same shade of light blue as his own. And – which doesn’t surprise him any more – there is a blush on his face. _Suits him._

As they continue their chat, going back and forth and inevitably landing at the incredible events of the World Cup, sharing a few laughs as they recall their first attempts to find proper pace with the red ball, neither Pat nor Chris realise they are being watched.

_What on earth’s going on here, _Joe thinks with a grin and looks at the blue watch on his wrist. “Lads, get a move on, there’s a pitch inspection in 10 minutes. Changing room, now.”

“Sorry about that.” Chris says and gets up. Sounds a bit reluctant, Pat thinks. “Oh never mind, but thanks. That was a fun lunch,” he says and holds out a hand.

Chris shakes his hand a bit more vigorously than he intended. “See you at tea. We’re not done.”

“Absolutely not. You need to tell me about Woody.” Pat grins. Even, stupidly, finds himself waving at Chris while Chris sprints out of the kitchen after the rest of his team.

“Got us some intel?” Wadey laughs and pounds Pat on the back. “Nothing worth mentioning.” Pat shrugs. “And besides, there’s such a thing as the fast bowling union.”

Wadey simply laughs again.

The afternoon drags on and the prospect of play becomes even more remote. Pat, deciding to stretch his legs, heads out to the balcony, hands buried in his sweatshirt. Looks down at the stands, nearly empty save for the usual few die-hard supporters and perennial optimists.

Feels a pair of light blue eyes on him, all the way across the pavilion. Strains his eyes, only vaguely makes out a figure in an England tracksuit and short (short?!? in these temperatures) sleeves, holding a pair of binoculars to his eyes. And for a moment, Pat thinks he may have seen Chris wink at him. Which could have just been his mind playing tricks, to be fair.

Either way, imagined or not, it is enough to let a very odd feeling settle on Pat’s stomach.

_I’m trying to … what the bloody hell. What’s going on with me._

_Just a bit of fun my arse, _Pat realises while he gets in line behind Mitch and Josh, feeling his stomach doing cartwheels. _I’m done for._

_Fuck._


	4. Not just a face in the crowd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Ashes series draws to a thrilling and - in the end - fair conclusion - Chris is hit with an unexpected revelation.  
And in the mild chaos of the series-ending-party at the Oval, admissions are finally made.

“Do. Not. Move.”

Jonny’s voice echoes around the Headingley changing room. Which, for the best part of the last hour, has been almost completely silent. Tension, mixed with more than a bit of panic, has taken hold of everyone, making them wish they could be anywhere else on earth right now – and yet making them unable not to stare down at the field, unable not to watch.

It could be over any ball. Any time now, the Australians will make the breakthrough they need, take the final wicket. And regain the Ashes. It was a good fightback, but the writing had been on the wall since the second day. Where a batting collapse – another batting collapse, Chris has had enough of these to last him a lifetime – left them all out for just 67.

_We fought well, we really scared them. But they … stop it, Chris._

Almost 125 overs gone. Out of the corner of his eye, Chris sees Joe stand up yet again as Nathan Lyon runs in. As he has done for every single ball since Broady got out, leaving them nine wickets down. Broady himself leans against the wall, next to Jimmy. Blinks rapidly, grips his best friend’s hand as if his life depends on it. Looks like he has been on the verge of tears for the last 20 minutes. In the far corner of the changing room (which isn’t that far, Headingley is a rather small ground), Jofra has clutched his necklace with his right hand. Keeps staring at the ground, whispering to himself.

“NO! WHY ARE YOU … OH FUCK!” Jos’ disbelieving shout is repeated by everyone around him. Shivers keep running down Chris’ spine. Leachy, miles out of his own crease – _why the fuck did you call for a run, Ben? _– has just been given the most unlikely of second lives. The ball, at least for the panicked little crowd in the home changing room, looked like it was safely on its way to a runout … and then, Nathan Lyon could not hang on to it. Dropped it.

“I think he’s dropped the…” Rory is quickly silenced by an outstretched hand from Jason.

Vaguely registering the way his hands are shaking, Chris stares down at the field again. Feels his heart sink when another good delivery from Lyon seems to be going straight to Stokesy’s pads … but the umpire’s finger stays down.

“And they bloody wasted their last review. I don’t believe it. I’ve…”

_You’re right, Jim. Still … it could be over right now._

With an interesting sort of feeling – one Chris can definitely not put a name to right now, because he’d be lost if someone asked him the date and time at the moment, his mind having gone completely blank – he watches a figure on the field take off his baggy green cap. Catch the ball Lyon tosses him. Go through his warm-up. Throw the ball in the air in a way Chris has found himself copy in the nets.

_What are you thinking about right now,_ Chris wonders.

And then wonders about himself.

Feels an unusual warmth settle on his cheeks as Pat runs in – _oh fuck, Leachy’s on strike, sorry about that, Jack, I know you can actually bat, but … gods I’m a mess._ Lets out an audible breath (is far from the only one, going by the noise) as Leachy ducks under a bouncer.

Three balls later, Pat (_why is it “Pat” now? We’re … or are we friends?_) gets the ball slightly round the wicket and … “HE’S OFF! I DON’T BELIEVE IT! HE’S OFF AND HE’S PUT STOKESY ON STRIKE AND ….” Rory stops himself. Leans forward, grabs Joe’s shoulder, his knuckles turning white. “It’s … I think it is ….” His voice begins to waver.

Behind his ear, Chris hears Stuart swallow audibly. Hears someone else breathe in slightly unsteadily, wonders for a second if it was Joe (who, to be fair, has been as pale as his whites for the last hour).

_Don’t ruin this for us, Pat._

Chris rolls his eyes at himself. Leans forward, his heart pounding in his throat.

Silence has fallen. An almost deafening silence.

Pat lets go of the ball.

A “whack”.

The most beautiful of “whacks” Chris has heard in his entire career.

The ball speeds past the Australians, unstoppable.

For three extended heartbeats, everything remains silent.

And then everyone jumps up at the same time. A veritable explosion of noise, on the terraces and on the field, where Ben drops his bat, arms raised to the sky and Leachy sprints across to squeeze the living daylights out of him. All around the field, England supporters are falling into each other’s arms.

The home changing room is a mess. A complete blur. For more than a minute, Chris can not, for the life of him, think a single clear thing. Does not know whose arms have just grabbed his shoulders, who it was that planted a smacking kiss on his right cheek (with enough force to almost make him bite his tongue). Hears someone sob with relief.

Which is enough to snap him out of his trance. Blinking rapidly, his entire body seeming to consist of goosebumps, his heart still racing so hard he can almost see it, Chris looks over his shoulder.

To see his captain, his friend, slumped to the floor, hiding his face behind his hands.

Joe’s shoulders are shaking.

“I know, Rooty, I know.” Stuart whispers. Crouches next to Joe, extends a hand, pulls him to his feet and into a fierce embrace. Strokes Joe’s back. “I know. I … what the fuck was that.”

“Stokesy.” Jonny says, the pride in his voice clearly audible.

Joe lets go of Stuart. Looks at his team with shining eyes. “Let’s go. Let’s go to Ben and Jack.” he says in a thick voice. Looks for Jos, takes his hand, holds it as tightly as he can while he leaves the changing room.

In a complete daze, Chris follows his friends on to the pitch. Wants nothing more than to embrace Ben and Leachy, wants to ask them if they have any idea what they have just done.

Until they actually arrive downstairs, greeted by one of the loudest roars Chris has ever heard from a terrace (which, as he only now sees, seems to consist of a few thousand people waving a shoe in the air. Did he really hear that? “Shoes off if you love Ben Stokes?”).

And the first thing Chris notices is … a stunned and very quiet group in test whites.

And baggy green caps.

Absolutely unable to process the drama of the last few overs, their review, Lyon’s dropped ball, the leg before not given by Umpire Wilson. For once, even Warner looks shaken.

Chris feels two piercing blue eyes settle on him. And knows he has turned bright red once again. _What.. We’ve just won one of the greatest test matches of all time, what am I doing?_

But then he catches sight of Pat’s set, disappointed, maybe even mildly furious (if his approach to his bowling is any similar to Chris’ when it comes to that) expression. And faintly pink ears.

And before he knows how, or why, Chris has crossed the field.

And finds himself face-to-face with his Australian … friend?

“Well done.” Pat says. Sounds shattered. “Thanks. I’ve got no idea what just happened.” Chris replies. Weirdly feels the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Nobody has.” Pat agrees. “But … Stokes played brilliantly. It’s not like I didn’t try,” he adds with a wry smile. One Chris can not help but match. “You did. Gave us quite a headache. And me personally.” he laughs.

Pat laughs as well. “Are we even?” he says and holds out a hand.

“We are now.” Chris shakes Pat’s hand. For a while longer than necessary. “And …”

“Oi, Woakesy!” “Coming, lads!” Chris turns back to Pat again. “Sorry.”

“Don’t. Enjoy.” Pat tells Chris with an interesting smile. “But … this isn’t over.”

While Tim leads the Australians off the field and Chris joins the rest of his team on an impromptu half-a-victory lap past the Barmy Army, he finds his eyes drifting back to the retreating figures again and again. Asks himself if he’s done the right thing. Then asks himself why he concerns himself with that.

And why on earth his right hand still feels as warm after fifteen minutes.

With the Ashes series well and truly alive, the chance of an unlikely victory at the Oval in the air, Chris is nevertheless glad for a short break at home. A chance to try and come down from the excitement of Headingley, to switch off. Not think about the fourth test for a good number of days. It has served him well at the World Cup, after all.

After having spent the best part of the first two days on his couch at home, catching up on some much-needed sleep and his favourite Netflix series, even ignoring his phone as good as he can, Chris does begin to get restless again. Unusually restless.

So, when he, out of the blue, remembers that the Australians are playing a three-day (on paper, that is) match against Derbyshire, that is all the excuse he needs to get out of the house on Thursday afternoon. Tries to explain it to himself as “I just need to stretch my legs – and if Joe asks, I can get him some info on their team for the fourth test.”

Which is really all there is to it, right? While he parks his car in his usual spot – it has been at least five years, if not longer, since he last played at the Derby County Ground (which does fill him with a bit of regret, he’d love to have more time for his county), the sun breaks through the clouds.

Chris stops for a minute and closes his eyes. Enjoys the warmth spreading through his body.

_This is just an excuse. I’m not here in any official…, _as he makes his way to the entrance, he gives a friendly wave to an excited boy who can’t be older than six years, _capacity._

_ And definitely not because I want to …_

_Nonsense. I do not want to see him again and … oh._

While he hands over a 10 pound-note to the groundswoman, ignoring her pleas to “oh no, you don’t have to pay, not after that amazing World Cup”, Chris sees two young men in dark green tracksuits head his way. Deep in conversation, wearing sunglasses.

An interesting tingling feeling settles on Chris as he recognises both of them. Accompanied by a smile he can only describe as silly. Because it is quite obvious, watching them interact with each other, that those two are … _they do remind me of Jimmy and Swanny, back in the day, _Chris thinks as he watches the slightly shorter man punch his companion’s shoulder affectionately. Who laughs, preparing to retort… and then stops dead in his tracks.

And if Chris wasn’t sure he was making the whole thing up, he could swear Pat is blushing.

“What a surprise.” Pat laughs and holds a hand out. “What exactly are you doing here? Spying on us?”

“No, I was just…,” Chris grins and shakes Pat’s hand. “In the area. Birmingham’s not that far away by car and I … wanted to get out of the house. One of my favourite golf courses is just to the north of Derby.” Which, thank god, came off as almost credible. Or so he thought.

“Not buying that.” Pat laughs.

“Thought you were playing?” Chris asks, desperate to change the subject. “Nah, Tim told us to get a rest. Starcy needs to get himself in form if he wants to …” Pat’s companion snorts loudly. “Okay, sorry, nearly had me there for a second.” Pat smiles. “And also, excuse my manners. This is … but I think you’ve met Mitch already.”

Interestedly, Chris sees Mitch roll his eyes at Pat before he shakes Chris’ hand. “Congrats on that brilliant World Cup final,” Mitch says, turning to Chris. “How exactly did you … I mean, I’d have gone nuts during the Super Over.”

“Oh believe me, we almost were. I think Jof only stopped shaking after half an hour.” Chris grins.

“Why don’t you … where’s that silly bugger disappeared to now,” Mitch says, turning around and straining his eyes, unable to see Pat. “Honestly, if he didn’t have me to keep an eye on him … oh gods.”

Laughing, Mitch spots Pat again, a few metres down the line, balancing three cups of coffee in his hands, waving them to him. “I did not even say anything to him. Okay, Chris, looks like you’ve been shouted one.” he says almost apologetically in Chris’ direction.

“That’s nice, thanks.” Chris replies and they catch up with Pat.

For the rest of the afternoon, Chris only pays the faintest of attentions to the match going on a few metres below him. While he finishes his really quite excellent coffee, they chat about everything and anything, sharing a few laughs as Mitch recounts his misadventures since the last World Cup.

And every so often, Chris catches Pat smiling at him.

And smiles back. Wondering why that leaves him happier than he has been in a good while.

Sadly, their optimism fired up by the miraculous finish at Headingley doesn’t last.

Steve Smith replies to Ben’s extraordinary performance with a legendary innings of his own, only falling to Joe (of all bowlers) after he has hit his first double century in the Ashes. A bowling attack avoiding the elephant in the room (only Chris hears Stuart mumble that they “fucking could have done with Jimmy” at the end of a really testing, frustrating second day) tries its best to fire back, but the hours in the field have done a number on all of them.

And from then, the outcome is inevitable.

Still, as they cling on all the way through the fourth and final day, Chris tries to keep the faith. Tries not to put too much blame on himself after he loses his wicket in a quite stupid fashion, tries to keep his spirits up for everyone’s sake.

But Chris is too much of a bowler himself not to recognise a fired-up performance, a fielding side in an excellent mood. As Pat finds his line and length with an ease Chris can’t help but envy, as his bowling partner Josh takes easy wicket after easy wicket, the obvious conclusion settles heavily on all of them.

Craig is the last to fall. Only 13 overs before the end. An hour too short. An hour away from taking the series to the Oval, from getting the Australians on the ropes, delivering yet another blow that could potentially turn their fortunes around completely.

Subdued, silently, they head downstairs. With a knot in his stomach, Chris sees Jos pulling Joe into a fierce hug before they get to the field. Hears Joe choke back a few tears. “I should…”

“Nonsense.” Jos kisses Joe’s cheek. “Absolute nonsense. And don’t forget. We’re all in this together.”

_We are. You’re not alone._ Chris sighs and resolves to keep an eye on his friend and captain for the rest of the evening. _Am I glad they don’t ask me to handle the press today. I wouldn’t know what to say._

Which, in an odd way, turns out to be even more accurate than Chris thought. While an ecstatic – but unusual even by their standards, absolutely friendly and sympathetic- Australian side meets them for the customary handshakes (Tim fighting back tears of his own), Chris suddenly feels he’s being watched.

And sees Pat give him an almost apologetic grin.

Which confuses Chris even more.

“Sorry about that.” Pat says as they draw level with each other. Puts a hand on Chris’ shoulder. “Don’t be so hard on yourselves, you fought well.”

Chris seems to have lost the ability to speak. Only nods while Pat gives his shoulder a squeeze. “And look after your captain. Poor kid seems quite heartbroken.”

“En…,” Chris has to cough. “Don’t worry. We will. And congrats. You were really on song this time.” he manages after a while, sounding strangely distant when he hears himself.

“Thanks.” Pat smiles and turns his head sharply as he hears a shout. “I wish they’d stop calling me Postman.” he sighs. “Sorry, got to go, the fast bowling cartel wants a selfie.”

“Postman?” Chris, despite it all, has to grin. “Postman Pat?”

“Don’t.” Pat, laughing, calls over his shoulder and runs to catch up with Mitch and Josh.

_And since when are **you** calling it fast bowling cartel?_

For the rest of the silent, melancholic evening, Chris finds his thoughts drifting all over the place – which hasn’t happened to him in a good while. Not since… and for some reason, a face keeps appearing before his mind’s eye.

A face with piercing blue eyes. And a kind, but ever so slightly cheeky smile.

_Fuck’s sake. _Chris thinks once he’s back in the safety of his hotel room, realisation hitting him like one of those excellent Yorkers that Pat seems to have reserved for him this test. _Fuck, that was really the last thing I expected this summer. How on earth didn’t I notice that before._

_But what are you going to do about it. He’s leaving in a week. Might as well not do anything. You won’t see each other for a year at least. And besides …_

_But he WAS flirting with me. And …_

“I really should go to bed,” Chris tells himself. Slips his pyjamas on, switches the light off.

And has a very confusing dream.

One that stays with him all the way through preparations for the final test, through their efforts to rally themselves and at least deny the Australians an outright series win. Almost as if his subconscious was trying to give him an idea? A plan to find out if this hasn’t all happened in his head?

Pat’s behaviour only seems to give further weight to his argument. Facilities at the Oval being what they are, both teams run into each other on a regular basis in the days leading up to the fifth test – half the Australian top six sharing the gym with Jofra, Stuart and Joe D for a slightly out-of-bounds weights session, nets being booked within an hour of each other, leading to a few actually funny observations on the respective opposition’s batting and bowling styles.

All the while, Pat seems oddly interested to watch Chris, lingers behind after his own nets have finished, gives little appreciative nods to him when Chris has bowled a good ball or hit an excellent cover drive. It hardly ever lasts longer than five minutes. And usually ends with Mitch shooing Pat away … and then shooting a very strange look in Chris’ direction.

Which is enough to plant an idea in Chris’ head.

As usual, Joe tells his players while Jos and Sam pad up on day three, they will celebrate the end of the series with the Aussies, inviting them into their changing room at the close of play – “tomorrow then, lads, we’ve almost got them,” he adds with a flourish and gives both his batsmen a brief hug. A welcome sight, Chris thinks. _Old Joe’s back again._

“That’s the spirit, Rooty!” Ben grins and high-fives Jos and Sam as well. “But now, let’s get to at least 400. There’s no way they’ll be able to chase that down, not even with Smith.”

In a considerably lighter mood, Chris settles on the balcony. _And that gives me all the time in the world._

“Catch!” Jonny shouts behind the stumps.

Josh Hazlewood knows he has nicked the ball as soon as it leaves his bat. Everyone on the field knows. Still, Chris braces himself, gets ready to stop it in case it … “You beauty!”

Joe, diving to his right, grabs the ball with both hands. Jumps to his feet, a beaming smile taking over his face as Jack runs up to him and gives him a hug.

A flurry of embraces, slaps on the back and high-fives. In the end, despite some stubborn resistance from Matthew Wade in the 2nd innings, it was always their test, they always had the upper hand. And a victory by 135 runs against Australia is worth celebrating. Doesn’t happen that often.

Presentations done and dusted – Stuart winning player of the series for England, of course (“Don’t think Warner’s voted for him”, Rory points out to Chris with a mischievous grin), Steve Smith being applauded off the pitch by both sets of supporters – Chris finally allows himself to relax. Takes off his shoes and socks, dumps his feet into a bucket full of cool water. Closes his eyes for a while.

And, of course, because that is just the way things have been going for the last week, thinks about his plan again. In about half an hour’s time, the Aussies will be done with their victory lap and post-match discussion. Joe (most likely accompanied by Ben, because Joe and Cooky always used to do this together as well) will head over to their changing room, knock at the door, invite the Aussies over.

If Chris’ last experience is anything to go by, this will be the usual mildly disorganised mess. Lots of laughter, some sledging, a few issues from the past six week settled between batsmen and bowlers alike. With the sheer amount of people on both sides, nobody will notice if he …

A chocolate bar hits his head, making him wince and nearly knock the bucket over. “Oi, you mental?” he shouts, his eyes darting across the room in search of the culprit. When he sees Sam’s face, taking on a very distinctive shade of pink, Chris laughs. “Should have known it was you.” “I asked you about three times.” Sam defends itself. “Your fault if you’re miles away.”

Chris picks the chocolate bar up and looks at it. “Good choice anyway, thanks Sammy.”

“I am listening.” Sam grins proudly and takes a bite off his own prize. “Thought I’d get one for all of us. In case we have something to celebrate tonight – and that was a brilliant game.”

“It was. You bowled a great spell in the first innings.” Chris tells Sam with a smile and dries his feet on a towel. Helps himself to a bit of chocolate, hopes nobody notices the heat on his cheeks as he sees Joe and Ben stand up. “Okay, lads, don’t sledge Warner too much, please, we’re gonna get those guys to join us now.” Ben says.

_I will just have to be patient. It’s only 6 pm. Plenty of time to settle this._ Chris takes a deep breath and feels an excitement settling on him that he hasn’t experienced in at least a decade. Not since … _I guess it’s really … fuck I’ve got it bad. And it’s the last night I have if I really want to find out …_

About five minutes later, Joe and Ben return with a quite upbeat Australian delegation, carrying a few boxes of pizza, several beers but – thank god, Chris thinks – not the urn. “Wouldn’t have been fair.” Tim explains, shaking hands with Jonny. “We’ve got it locked away safely.”

“For the time being.” Jonny retorts with a grin and they both laugh.

“Pizza’s on us, anyway.” Steve says, looking across the room. “Great bowling, you lot. Unfortunately. All in all, 2-2 is a fair result.” “It is.” Rory clinks glasses with him. “But seriously, what… I mean, how the fuck do you do it?” “Don’t even try,” Steve laughs, sitting on the table next to Rory. “Thanks anyway. And you’re doing alright for yourself. Plan to keep that opening spot?”

All around the room, little chats and discussions break out. The occasional laughter from both sides, an attempt at an apology that even makes David Warner grin – and promise to “get Stuart back for that during the next series.”

While he shares a few slices of bacon and corn pizza with Marnus and Mitch, tries to explain the changes he has made to his run-up in a way that doesn’t only make sense to a fellow bowler (Chris does listen to Joe, occasionally), Chris surreptitiously keeps an eye out for Pat.

Something he only now recognises as butterflies dances around his stomach as he suddenly sees Pat, in conversation with Thorpey, give him a wink. And wave for him to join them.

They clink bottles. “I was just saying to Graham I’m going to try and teach me a few more shots.” Pat explains, taking a sip. “Not that I want to be an allrounder, I’m gonna leave that to the proper experts. Like your Jack.” Graham and Chris laugh. “Don’t let Leachy hear you say that,” Graham points out. “It’s just gonna go to his head. We’d rather he concentrates on his off-break balls.”

“Oh he’s brilliant at those.” Pat acknowledges. “Unfortunately.”

“But so are your short balls. Never seen anyone hit them with this sort of … filth.” Chris, unable to resist the opening Pat just gave him (confirmed by a faint blush settling on Pat’s cheeks), retorts with a wink. “Nobody’s ever called them filthy.” Pat smirks. “But thanks. And … what sort of shots do you think I should add to my batting portfolio?”

“You could work on your cover drive. You’re quite good, but I think there’s a few areas you can improve in.” Graham replies. “I’m listening.”

As they chat away, Chris reminiscing about the days he spent in the nets with KP, watching masterful pull-shot after masterful pull-shot, Graham joining in with a few tweaks and tricks of his own, Chris suddenly feels a weight pull at his left hand. Warmth, unusual warmth, spreads through his fingers to the rest of his body. Makes his heart pound.

_What is he …_

In slow-motion, Chris looks at his hand.

And sees a finger linking with his left little finger. Suddenly realises that Pat must have been inching closer to him, he can nearly feel … or is that his mind playing tricks on him? There are close to fifty people in the home changing room anyway, that is enough to warm any place up more than a …

Chris looks up.

And sees an interesting smile playing on Pat’s face.

Two almost icy blue eyes flick to Chris’ lips for an instant.

A second finger links with Chris’.

Long enough to make the room around them disappear for a while. For Chris to completely forget where he is, what he has done to get up here. Nothing seems to matter. Except that hand sneaking closer and closer to his. And the interesting smell in the air (an aftershave?).

_I didn’t… I never … guess it wasn’t in my head. Bloody hell. Talk about unexpected._

Chris takes a deep breath. _Here goes._

“I need a bit of fresh air, want to join me?” he says, turning to Pat, putting on his best inconspicuous tone. Sees the blush on Pat’s cheeks deepen for a good while, hears Pat clear his throat before he nods. “After you, though. You’re from around here.”

“Not exactly, I told you Edgbaston’s my home ground but … yeah, point taken, sorry about that.” Chris can’t hide a grin. “Let’s go. I’m gonna have words with Sammy afterwards, tuna on pizza, seriously. That smell’s gonna hang in there for the next week or so.”

The corridor is thankfully empty as Chris and Pat leave the changing room. Looking over his shoulder, Chris spots one of the staircases leading down to the field. Heads off, Pat following him closely, very closely in fact. Looking for all the world like …

and then, a hand takes Chris’ hand properly. Gives him a little squeeze.

And does not want to let go while Chris leads them out on the stand, into a spot which can’t be seen from the home changing room balcony (not exactly true, but at least it’s dark enough that they won’t be recognised if anyone looks down).

Chris has lost the ability to think. Looks for a place to sit.

Pat still holds his hand. Looks him directly into the eyes.

“I’m … please tell me I didn’t read this completely wrong.” he says, taking a half-step in Chris’ direction. “But … it’s been three months and a bit and we’ve been … I don’t know what’s brought this on but … sorry, I’m rambling. The point I was trying to make is …”

Chris never thought Pat could sound this shy. The slightly mischievous smile has completely disappeared from his face. His eyes bright and unusually big, a crimson colour high on his cheeks, Pat studies Chris’ face. A finger starts to stroke the back of his hand.

Shivers after shivers run down Chris’ spine. All the questions, all the speeches, all the apologies in case he made it into something it wasn’t, all his careful preparations for this night, all the plans he made while he cooled his feet in the bucket just two hours ago, everything is sent cartwheeling like a stump hit by a well-placed full toss.

_I was right._

Chris takes a step in Pat’s direction. Takes another deep breath.

“No.” he says and wonders how soft his voice just sounded. “No, you didn’t. I didn’t either.”

For a few heartbeats, they keep looking at each other, Pat’s eyes slowly beginning to shine. “So … I mean … can I…?” Pat falters. Swallows. A quiet awkward laugh escapes him.

“Yes, of course.” Chris can’t help but laugh as well. Sneaks an arm around Pat’s shoulders.

Pat follows suit. Leans in.

And so does Chris.

Laughing, breathless, with their cheeks feeling as if they are on fire, they break apart an eternity later, Pat’s arm still around Chris’ shoulders. Chris moves his right hand up, brings it level with Pat’s cheek, strokes the ghost of a stubble he can feel underneath his fingers. “You’re good.” Pat says softly, a beaming smile lighting up his features. “But I never thought … I mean I never knew you’d …” “Me neither,” Chris laughs. “And also, just to make this clear. I didn’t plan this at all. I mean…”

“I didn’t plan this either,” Pat smiles and pulls Chris in for another kiss.

A warm late summer’s night envelops the terraces of the Oval.

Up in the home changing room, beers, laughter, compliments and childhood stories make the rounds, both English and Australian players enjoying each other’s company, revelling in a thrilling series.

It may be the end of the summer. It may be only a day before Pat flies home. It may not be clear at all when, or if, they are going to see each other again.

But for the time being, neither Pat nor Chris could give a damn about that.


	5. And one clock set to your time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> September 22, 2019.  
Starcy invites everyone to his apartment in Sydney for a "gentlemen's evening" and an overdue reunion with some of their favourite foods.  
Maybe there is a way to negotiate 10 hours of time difference?

“Anyone want some more Tim-Tams?”

The moment Josh steps out on Starcy’s small balcony overlooking Sydney Harbour, he stops in his tracks, holding the packet of biscuits in his hands a little awkwardly. “I … wow. I missed that.” he says quietly, pointing at the sky.

“We all did,” Tim smiles understandingly and leans back against Steve.

The sun is just setting on the horizon. A dark orange, almost red glow lights up the hundreds of yachts, kayaks and motorboats taking advantage of one of the first warm weekends in spring. Reflects off the high-rise buildings on the other side of the inlet. A flock of startled seagulls scatters, cawing loudly.

“’s nice.” Marnus acknowledges, using everyone’s stunned silence to help himself to a milk chocolate-covered biscuit out of Josh’s packet. Laughs as he catches Tim’s eye. “What did you expect? Haven’t had one in almost half a year, I missed them too.”

“Just make sure you leave some for the rest of us, eh, LBS?” Josh laughs. “And besides, I did hear Starcy say something about whitebait fritters later.” “You’re joking?” Tim and Marnus say at the same time. “Actual whitebait?” “Yes.” Starcy appears on the balcony with a fresh crate of chilled beers. “I have my sources. Thought we deserved something special for our first weekend back home.”

His announcement is greeted with loud cheers. “I know you too well, guys.” Starcy smiles and clinks bottles with Josh. “Think I’m gonna go kayaking on Tuesday if it stays this nice.”

“Joining you.” Marnus takes another biscuit.

Which, because of course it does, sparks yet another edition of The Great Boating Debate, spearheaded by Starcy, Garry and Ussie.

_At some point, you’re gonna have to agree to disagree, lads._ Pat shakes his head fondly. It has gotten this much out of hand that he can complete everyone’s arguments by now. Starcy favours kayaks, Ussie does not want to do any work when he’s out on the sea so he’s on the lookout for a motorboat, Garry wouldn’t be caught dead in anything less than a jetski. And as usual, they try to convince each other to at least give the other type of boats a go.

If Pat didn’t like this bunch of blokes so much … then again, the Debate does give him the perfect sort of excuse tonight. Not that he isn’t enjoying this “gentlemen’s evening”, it has been almost a year since they last had time for it, they do have Tim’s and Steve’s bachelor parties and wedding to plan and Starcy is an excellent cook. Pat can already feel his mouth water when he thinks about the potato salad waiting for them with their fried whitebait.

For the last couple of days, however, Pat has been feeling more than a little out of it. Which, as he knows all too well, is only partially thanks to the slight cold he caught during the last Ashes test a week ago, let alone his jetlag (when did he last spend an entire morning in his bed at home?).

There is an entirely different reason for his distracted state of mind. That caused him to pick up one of the deckchairs on Starcy’s small balcony, settle into it a few metres away from the rest of his lads, look out onto the sea. And try his best not to pick up his phone.

An obvious reason. With light blue eyes, immaculately coiffed brown hair, elegant slender hands and an almost permanent smile. Last seen by Pat on … Monday, in the semi-darkness of a London hotel room about to be lit by the morning sun. Just five days ago.

Pat squeezes his eyes shut. Does NOT want to re-live that particular farewell right now. Slips two fingers into his front pocket, takes out a tiny sheet of paper. Stares at the figures scrawled on it with a red ballpoint pen. Not that he doesn’t know them by heart, by now.

“Call me when you’re home.” Those were his last words. Pat can still hear them, in this quite lovely accent of his that he, by now, has begun to call “Brummie” as well. That he has caught himself copy in his mind on the way back, sounding quite good at least to his own ears.

It is no use to pretend otherwise, that much has been clear to him since they got home on Thursday morning. Pat has got it bad. And a huge problem to go with that. _Because THAT is the definition of long-distance. When am I gonna see him again?_

Sighing to himself (then, it has been fifteen minutes since his last attempt, so he does keep his promises up to a point), Pat grabs his phone. Unlocks it, looks at the photo of the Oval he has taken a week ago during training. His eyes flick to a new widget he installed on Friday afternoon.

_Nine in the morning. I wouldn’t even disturb him when I call now. All I need to do is finally save his number to my contacts. And then open Skype. Preferably out of earshot of these idiots, that is._

“You too, mate?”

Pat flinches and almost drops his phone into the glass of L&P standing at his feet. Anxiously – is he about to be found out? And if yes, who is it? Because if it’s Wadey, he might as well jump off the balcony into the inlet straight away, he would never live down that banter – he looks up.

To see two curious grey eyes looking down on him.

Maxi fixes him with a surprised smile. “I don’t …,” he stops and looks over his shoulder, but everyone seems to be busy winding up Zamps about the frankly atrocious shirt he’s wearing. Maxi squats on his haunches and looks at Pat. “I thought I was the only one.”

“You what?” Pat isn’t sure if it is nerves or his jetlag, or a mixture of both, but he has no idea what his mate is going on about right now. Maxi inches closer. “I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.” He takes his phone out of his back pocket and unlocks the screen. Shows it to Pat.

“Why do you have a second clock on your … is that GMT?” Pat asks, confused. Which only increases when he sees a blush settle on Maxi’s cheeks, quite visible behind his beard. And, while Maxi runs a hand through his hair distractedly, Pat sees something else he hasn’t noticed before.

A black leather armband on Maxi’s left wrist. With a tiny red rose on it.

“Yep.” Maxi lowers his voice even further, forcing Pat to lean forward in his chair. “Thing is, you know I loved it in Lancashire, right?” “Of course, that was obvious from all the texts I got in August alone.” Pat grins. And then, his brain catches up with the rest of his mouth, telling him to pay attention.

There is a suspicious glint in Maxi’s eyes. “There’s a reason for that and it’s not just the team. Or the cricket. Or the fact that we’ve played in some of the most beautiful places I’ve been to. That ground at Sedbergh alone … But that’s just half of the story.”

“You met someone?” Pat clamps a hand over his mouth, knowing he almost shouted. “Sorry. It’s just … you never told me. I … do I know them?” “Well if he keeps playing like he did this season, you will. Maybe in the next Ashes.”

Pat swallows a laugh. “Maxi, mate, you never fail to spring a surprise on me. You and a Pommie boy?”

Maxi’s smile confirms the rest of the story. “We’ve been Skyping every day since I got back. And … I sort of get the feeling we’ve got a bit in common, Patty.”

Pat takes a deep breath. Glances over his shoulder to see if nobody’s eavesdropping.

And feels himself smile as he nods. “Yep. We do.”

“Who is it?” Maxi smiles back. Scrunches his face up in concentration and Pat can see him run through every English cricketer he has come across. “Guy or girl?” he adds.

“Bloke.” Pat almost wants to laugh again. Can’t believe they are having this conversation right now.

“Ashes squad?” Maxi hazards a guess.

Pat nods. Knows he is blushing.

Maxi laughs softly. “Talk about fraternising with the enemy.” “Just don’t tell Wadey or Dave. You know what they think about Poms in general. And Dave in particular, with that stuff he’s been getting by Broad all summer…” Maxi puts a hand on Pat’s shoulder. “Well if they do find out, I’ll handle them for you.”

“Thanks mate. And … that armband you’ve got,” Pat stops and takes a sip of lemonade, “that’s from your lad?” “Yes. Been wearing it non-stop.”

Pat has never seen Maxi look this happy before. “Can I know who it is?” he asks and squeezes Maxi’s hand. “I’ll show you a pic. But … you haven’t spoken to yours, have you?” Maxi replies.

“Haven’t found the time for it yet, was too busy sleeping.”

Maxi looks at the clock. “Perfect time for it now if you ask me. It’s nine in the morning in the UK. And knowing Starcy, the whitebait fritters will take another 30 minutes. More like 50 if Zamps gets his mushrooms in first. Go. Go ahead and call him. I’ll cover for you.”

“I owe you.” Pat says gratefully. “No worries, mate.” Maxi grins. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Once he is alone again, Pat takes several deep breaths. Scrolls down the menu in his phone, clicks on “add new contact.” Types for a while. Remembers – only now – that he found a really hilarious text from the same number as soon as he switched his phone back on again on Thursday morning.

Deletes the entry, goes to his texts, copies the number and adds it. Takes another deep breath.

And opens the Skype app in his menu. Clicks on “International Call”.

“And you really didn’t want to tell me?” Joe sounds almost offended, making Chris laugh. And bite his lip. Knows you could use him as a traffic light, the way his cheeks have been glowing for the last five minutes. “Sorry about that. Didn’t know how you’d take it.” he says and stares at his shoelaces.

“Oh, come on. You obviously clicked.” Joe laughs and squeezes Chris’ forearm. “I owe you a great deal, you know why. About time you found someone. Even if it’s _that_ particular Aussie,” he adds, shaking his head affectionately. “I did get suspicious in Lord’s, for about five seconds, that is. But I never … so, have you spoken to him since last weekend?” Joe shoots Chris a curious look.

“Haven’t had an idea how to.” Chris admits, blushing again.

“Oh Blushyface, don’t be dense. Call him.” Joe squeezes Chris’ forearm again. “Must be evening over in Sydney, he’s definitely still up. I mean … oh, you’ve got an Aussie clock on your phone.” he laughs. “Go ahead, do it. I’ll leave you to it.”

Shaking his head and stifling a few giggles, Joe goes back into the house.

_He’s right, _Chris realises. _It is a little more than just a summer’s flirt._

_We’ll … figure this out. One week at a time. And now …_

A ringtone he hasn’t heard before makes him flinch. _Is that …?_

“International Call from “F”,” his Skype app tells him.

Chris feels his heart begin to race. And a beaming smile settle on his cheeks.

He closes his eyes for a second. His hands have begun to shake.

_Okay._

Chris clicks on “accept call”.

Feels an entirely new kind of happiness take over his entire body.

“Hi,” he says.


End file.
